


Tabula Rasa

by Ashley_vh



Series: Tabula Rasa [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Eating Disorders, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-04-09 19:24:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashley_vh/pseuds/Ashley_vh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He acted on instinct.</p>
<p>The same instinct that made him so dangerous made him save the life of the man he was meant to kill.</p>
<p>  <i>I'm with ya till the end of the line.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 7/17/15

He acted on instinct.

The same instinct that made him so dangerous made him save the life of the man he was meant to kill.

_I’m with ya till the end of the line._

He knew those words.  They echoed around his head until the buzz was almost louder than the chopper blades above him.  He saw flashes of the man behind his eyes, but he looked different.  Smaller.  Sicker.  And it made his chest tight, hard to breathe through the pain of it.

A woman with fiery red hair jumped out of the chopper before it touched the ground and ran to the man he left at the side of the river.  He watched her yell something to the man rushing to her side, the one who had wings.

He couldn’t hear what they said. They were too far from him, the chopper was too loud.

They carried the man to the chopper and then they were gone, flying up and over his head and down the river until they disappeared, and the ache in his chest eased.

The flashing red and blue lights were getting closer to the water. 

He needed to get back.                                                                                     

He followed the river leading to the city, the water sparkling in the hot sun and clear of debris since the crash was downriver, and his boots sinking into the muck with each silent step.  The river was his best access point to the city.  The police were loudly searching the streets for injured, flying around in helicopters like flies.  They were on high alert, getting back undetected would be difficult, but he had orders to return after the mission.

The mission he failed.                                                           

He’d never failed a mission before.

They would—

He was closer to the city now.  The choppers were louder, the windows of the tall buildings gleamed brightly in the sun, stinging his eyes.  He could hear a mass of people running along the streets and yelling, but they were too far away to hear anything specific.  The chaos would be easy to get lost in and get back undetected—

But he didn’t just fail.

He _disobeyed_.

There was a strange buzzing in his head, like the little buzzing tools they used to fix the metal arm.  The sound drowned out the crowds and the sirens and the gently running water and he stopped walking.  The sun faded. 

He disobeyed his orders.

He should have let that man stay at the bottom of the river.

It was what he was ordered to do, after all.

But he acted on instinct.

His work shaped the—changed a… No, That wasn’t right.

A loud chirping siren sped past him, closer than he expected to hear it.  The sudden sound made him flinch and step back into the shadowed doorway of a small building that he didn’t know he was beside, hidden from the street by a line of trees and beside a bridge across the river, far enough from the city that the police wouldn’t search it yet.  The sign on the door said that the little shop was closed in faded orange letters without saying when it would open.

The sirens flew by him towards the building he saw in flames and rubble down the river. 

More choppers flew across the sky, making it improbable that he could move freely on the rooftops.

He heard more police cars and ambulances coming.  There was no way he’d be able to get to the Bank undetected, especially when he was still dressed in the soaking wet combat gear that did nothing to hide the metal arm that gleamed in the sun.  He couldn’t walk through the city streets without attracting attention.

The door to the little store wasn’t locked, so he slipped inside before another police car sped by, turning the latch behind him to lock him inside.

After the bright sunlight outside, it took a second to adjust to the sudden dusk, but the place smelled stale, like no one had set foot in the tiny shop in a long time.   It was cool and dark, silent and empty with only a few small beams of light through tiny windows set high into the wall. 

A small security camera was in the top corner of the store’s wall.  It took barely two steps to reach the counter under it and climb up.  He reached up with the metal hand and pulled it off the wall in a shower of sparks as the wires snapped.  He crushed the camera in the fist and let the plastic pieces fall to the floor around his boots.

He slowly moved towards the counter where there was a small glass tank next to a small white bucket labeled “Live Bait” and “Crickets” on the corner.  The glass tank had a thin layer of tan chips and tubes of cardboard, but not a single cricket.  The clear plastic lid on the container of bait showed a bucket of still, dry dirt.  Three tables had small stacks of clothes and rows of tiny statues of buildings and cups with flags printed on them.

There was no other way in or out of the store, no back room, or windows big enough to crawl through.

He could wait there, with his back to the wall crouched behind the counter under the massive “Johnson’s City Shoppe” chalkboard sign until it was dark and they wouldn’t see him jump across the rooftops.  Back to them—

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._ The man had said, _you know me._

The shop vanished, the cool darkness replaced with blinding white light and gently falling snow.

There was a man with round glasses and a thick accent.  He was so cold and everything hurt when the scientist said, “Sergeant Barnes” with a smile that made his blood run colder than the snow.

He blinked and he was still in the little shop, shivering and breathing too heavy.

Then there was a train, ice, or maybe snow burning his skin, and he was shaking.  He would die there in the cold. 

The man who said he knew him was reaching for him, but he wouldn’t be able to get him in time.  He fell.

There were patches of blood on the snow where he arm was Before.  After hours of agony, the pain of his arm being cut apart felt like a welcomed relief from torture.  It still hurt, so cold it felt like burning, but distant and fuzzy.

He swung out blindly, the new metal fist slamming against the cash register and shoving it to the floor with a clatter.  The noise made him flinch, his back hit the wall.

His breath came in sharp gasps, pain lacing through his shoulder where the man snapped it, and his heart beat loudly in his ears.

_You shall be the new fist of Hydra._

His hands were trembling. 

_Til the end of the line…_

He couldn’t breathe.

_You failed._

His hands shook asthey came up to tangle in his long hair.  He ignored the pain that made him lose his breath.  He closed his eyes.

_You know me._

He can’t go back.

There wasn’t any noise anymore.  The small building was still and empty again; the sirens had left.  He was alone in the silence.  His breath shuddered and his body trembled. 

He didn’t know why he knew the man he left by the river—

But he did.

He didn’t know why he can’t go back—

But he couldn’t.

There was no where he could go, no scientist to fix his shoulder so he could move it without pain, no safe haven to hide from whoever may be chasing him—

There was a tracker in the metal arm. 

He didn’t know how he knew that—

But he did.

He worked on instinct.  Taking one of the many knives he had hidden in their sheaths stitched into his gear, he held the point over the crease where two shiny metal plates met on the inside of the wrist.  A long lock of hair fell in front of his eyes, but he didn’t push it out of the way.

The point of the knife made prying the metal plate off easy.  The little flash of silver clattered from the countertop to the floor and exposed the wires set into the metal core of the arm.  There, embedded into a tiny crevice between the wires, was the chip in the wrist under the point of his knife.

After a moment of digging at the tiny groove in the metal meant for more delicate tools than his, the small chip inched out of its space.  He let the knife fall out of his hand onto the counter with a clatter that was too loud in the silence.

He looked around from behind the counter, finding the piles of thick sweaters and coffee mugs exactly as they had been before, no sign of Them.  Carefully, his shaking fingers picked the chip out of its place. 

The chip was smaller than he expected it to be.  Barely the size of his fingertip—meant to find him if something like this happened.  He inspected it closely under a beam of sunlight, its small red light blinking.  They were looking.

Without thinking, he smashed the chip to powder and fractured shards in the metal palm.  He stared down at the fractures of the chip in his hand before dropping them on the counter beside the knife.

He stood still for a moment, thoughtless and shaking in the cold, dark air before looking down at the missing plate in the metal arm.  He needed to replace it, make it look like new, like he hadn’t taken out the chip.

The metal plate had fallen to the ground when he pried it off, so he dipped below the counter to pick it up.  Underneath a small pile of newspaper, the butt of a barely concealed gun caught his eye.

Why would a shop need a handgun?

He shifted the newspaper, showing the gun and a small solid black hand-held radio.  The radio was silent when he picked it up, but the knob on the top next to the antenna was switched on, waiting for an alert.

A siren screamed by the store, closer than he’d heard before.  He froze, crouching low behind the counter until the siren passed, leaving the store in silence once again.

He stood up slowly, straining to hear anyone near the store as he carefully placed the piece of metal to the arm, pushing it until it snapped in place, looking completely normal—save for a few scratches and scrapes where his knife scratched the metal.

The next step in going on the run was to get out of the heavy damp gear into something that wouldn’t catch the public eye.  He quickly drew the guns and knives out of their places around his chest and piled them on the counter.

He walked out from behind the counter, to where the stack of sweatshirts sat.  As he walked, he unbuckled the metal and leather straps across his chest to take off the still-damp Kevlar until it fell to the floor. He stood in front of the display table with his chest bare, the scars around the metal arm vivid red on his skin.

He picked a sweatshirt off the top of the stack, letting it unfold in front of him.

He’d seen people in the streets of the city wear jackets like that one, dark blue with a long zipper running up the middle and a hood in the back.  The sleeves were long enough to cover the arm and not call attention to the metallic gleam.

He had to move quickly.  He unzipped the jacket, pulled it on over his nearly dry skin, and zipped it across his chest, ignoring the pain in his hurt shoulder.  The material was soft, tingling where it brushed against him.  It was loose around his waist, but it didn’t matter as long as it kept him hidden.

There was a little chirping sound from behind the counter, he froze at the sudden sound.  He followed it behind the counter as he listened to the gravelly, interrupted voice on the radio say, “ _Agent 13 to Johnson’s.  Agent 13 to Johnson’s.  Is anyone there? Over.”_ ~~~~

Agent 13’s voice was rushed and she sounded out of breath as she spoke. ~~~~

He picked the radio up in his hand as it chirped again.  The number 13 flashed across the small screen that was dark and blank before. 

The radio chirped again, “ _I repeat, is anyone there, I have survivors from the Triskelion.”_ There was another chirp, shorter than the last, like the agent accidently let her finger slip off the radio.  “ _We’re a hundred yards out, is anyone there? Over.”_

He moved before she could finish speaking.  The radio smacked against the counter by his weapons when he let it go without bothering to put it back.  The group of agents was almost there.  He had to leave.

He grabbed the guns and pushed them into the pockets of the jacket and took as many of the knives as he could grab and put them in his pants pockets as he turned to rush around the counter.

With one last glance around the store, he carefully opened the door just a crack, listening for the group on their way.

They weren’t quiet.  Even over the sound of the helicopters, he could hear the sound of a group—fifteen agents in all—making their way over the gravel parking lot with slow, shuffling steps.  They were talking, but he couldn’t hear what they said between their deep coughs.

They were too close, but there was no other way. ~~~~

He opened the door and stepped out, turning away from them as soon as he could so they couldn’t see his face.  He hunched his shoulders to look smaller, less noticeable, and started to walk away from the wreckage with his hands in his pockets, holding the guns, ready to use.  He glanced over his shoulder once, to see how far out they are.

The group leaned on each other, not a single person standing on their own.  They were dirty, covered in dust and blood with cuts in their business clothes as they hobbled towards the safe house.  A woman with light blond hair covered in dust had an older man leaning against her at the front of the group.  The man couldn’t put weight on his leg, so he hopped with the woman as she stepped closer.  She looked down, making sure there was nothing in their path, then back towards the store.

“Hey!”  The woman yelled when she saw him, her voice strained from exertion.

He turned away, walking faster without actually running.  He heard a little scuffle, “Take him!” She ordered, but he didn’t turn to look.

When he heard her start to run, her heeled shoes crunching on the gravel, he turned towards the river, putting the little shop between him and the agent.

But still she followed.

He could stop.  Turn and shoot her in the head before she could take another step, but—

He didn’t want to kill her.

So he ran and let her chase.

She couldn’t run as fast as he could.   He was already gaining distance from her as she passed the store.  The river was close, the water rushing downstream as he ran to the bridge, high above the water. 

Before she could tell him to stop, he jumped over the guardrail of the bridge, into the water again.

* * *

The metal guard railing under her hands was hot from the sun as she stared out over the rushing water below her.  There wasn’t even a ripple in the surface of the river.  Whoever that man was, he apparently can vanish into thin air.

She heard the group behind her—the ones who weren’t so badly hurt—come towards her in concern.  “Agent Carter?”  One of them asked.

She blinked and turned, they needed her help more than she needed to chase a ghost.   So she helped lead them all into the safe house, holding the door open for the pairs that could barely walk.

Some of the agents were taken to the hospital, but for all she knew the hospital was run by Hydra agents.  There was no telling how deep this snake went.

It was safest for all of them to tend to their own wounds in the safehouse and wait for orders.

If any Level Ones were still alive.

“Don’t touch more than you need for first aid.”  She ordered. “Whoever that was might have left something behind.”

“Like a bomb?”  A girl, probably fresh out of college said in a small voice with wide eyes.  Her brown hair was matted and covered in dust and blood from the wound on her head.  “Is it safe to be here?”

“Like something to identify him,” she said slowly.  “For now, here’s safer than whatever could be out there.”  Sharon said, turning from the group just inside the door to the main shop.

It looked the same as ever, save for the cash register and the security camera thatwas broken on the ground, the pile of black fabric on the floor by the display table, and the small clutter of knives and small guns on the countertop that the man—who ran faster than she’d ever seen anyone run since Steve Rogers—must have left.

She carefully stooped low to pick up the fabric, thick and heavy in her hands.  One arm of the bulletproof jacket was missing, it hung open and slightly damp as the metal straps jingled together.

“Is that—?” whoever spoke cut themselves off when Sharon carefully folded the gear in half and sat it beside the sign labeling the sweaters.  She moved to the counter and picked up the radio from the floor, the small screen cracked, but otherwise unharmed.

That must have been what made him leave in such a hurry.  She could practically see the door of the safehouse since the group limped away from the Triskelion, there were no backdoors and the windows were too small for a guy that size to squeeze through.  He had to have been in the safehouse a while.

She gritted her teeth and put the radio on the counter to look at the small pile of weapons on the dark wood.  Small knives and guns and two ammo clips all scattered around the counter top.

The man she helped into the door was a pilot who crash landed at the base of the Triskelion.  He told her on the march to the safehouse about the ‘dude with the metal arm’.  He had weapons and moved faster than he’d ever seen, almost inhuman.  He killed the pilot’s partner.

She picked up a green chip from the counter.  It was small, probably some kind of tracker, and broken, smashed in pieces so it couldn’t work anymore.   Sharon looked up to where the camera should be.

The security camera was hooked to a computer behind the chalkboard sign covered in outdated flyers and chalk drawings.  It was simple for her to lift the heavy board off the wall and set it aside. 

She could hear whispers from the group behind her, whispers about the man with a metal arm, how he would come back for them because they’re weak and vulnerable, but she ignored them as she typed in the password to watch the security tape.

The camera is set to start recording from when the door opens to whenever the override code is entered—or when the camera is ripped off the wall.  She watched as the guy rushed into the safehouse and locked the door behind him, his arm clearly metal in the dull light.  She watched as he surveyed the store, his eyes locking on the camera a split second before he was moving, reaching up and ripping it off the wall like it was held together with tape instead of bolts.  Her people gasped as the screen turned to static, but a sick feeling settled in her gut as she rewound the footage.

The breath left her lungs in a rush.  She’d seen him before.  In pictures on the mantle of her aunt’s fireplace, in stories told while she sat on the floor at Christmas with her cousins—but it’s not possible.  Bucky Barnes is dead.

She could hear the group behind her whisper, but she couldn’t hear what they said.

Her aunt had told her stories of the Howling Commandos when she was small, she knew their history better than whatever her teachers taught her in school, andshe knew their faces.  He was different, angry or scared, but it was him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5/1/16

Instinct was a funny thing.

He should have gone farther.  There was only 4 hours of highway between them and him, and he couldn’t stop shaking.

He didn’t know how long he was on the floor of that empty apartment in a city that had signs with “New York City” in neon.  Something about the name struck him, leaving him with images of the man who said he knew him laying in the sun on a couch in an apartment like this one.

Everything hurt.  His stomach was cramping, his shoulder wasn’t healing like his other injuries did, and every flash of something else, some other time, brought a stab of pain in his head like it was splitting apart and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

That city was so loud.  Car horns, people shouting, helicopters, every sound was ear splitting, and everything was bright. 

He got to the city when the sun had set and the lights glittered from every corner.  He let himself be struck by the immenseness of it all.

When he got into the apartment, he’d closed the thick curtains of the empty apartment, but he could still see the blazing glow from the tiny gap under the curtain get brighter, hotter, then fade, and get brighter again and it stung his eyes.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. 

That they were going to break in and drag him back to their bank before he could even fight back. 

It made the back of his neck itch and the metal arm twitch towards his gun every time a person passed too close to the apartment door.  

He’d taken one of the guns out of the pocket of the jacket and sat it on the hardwood floor beside him, ready to shoot when they came for him.

They were coming for him.

They would take him back to the chair—

_Then wipe him, and start over._

The words made his heart sink.  His tone had been so cold and distant—

Scientists surrounded him then, preparing him in the harsh glare of the artificial, but all he saw was the distant look on his face as they shoved him down against the chair.  Fear made him lose his breath for a moment, but he was still watching.

His heart pounded in his chest as one of them held a guard to his face, anger twisted in his gut.  He was so angry.

The guard was hard against his teeth, it hurt when he bit it, but he did it anyway. 

He’d only watched with that look still on his face. 

It was like waiting for a snake to bite, waiting for the restraints to hold him down. 

When they finally snapped into place, he flinched and he couldn’t breathe.  His whole body had tensed up as they made the chair lean back and the cold metal locked around his head.

He couldn’t breathe and the room was dark again, like he’d gone blind, he couldn’t see.  His heartbeat was pounding in his temples and everything was so hot.  The sound of his breath was harsh in the silence, but no matter how much air he sucked in, it wasn’t enough.

It felt like his head was splitting open and sweat beaded on his skin.  He could still feel the shock, burning everything in him until there was nothing left—

There was a thud. 

Dull.  And quiet.  But real.

His breath froze in his lungs.  He acted on instinct, grabbing the gun beside him and holding it in the metal fist.  Waiting.  His breath shook as he released it, straining to hear any other sound.

This is it, they’d found him—

Two sets of footsteps, one near-silent and the other slightly heavier, walked into the apartment. 

He’d have to run. 

They were coming to take him back to the bank, back to the chair, back to the shock and the pain and the disappointment.

They started talking, trying and failing to be quiet.

“I just thought of something,” one of them said, his voice a low, near-whisper.

They were searching the apartment, looking for him.  He had to get to the window, slip out into the early morning sunlight through the rickety fire escape before—

A scoff.  Low, more of a snicker really, and a familiar voice.  “Be careful.”  She said, “Too much of that, you might hurt yourself.”  She was teasing the man.  The voice was so familiar.  He remembered it from somewhere.  That same low, teasing voice, he’d heard it before.  In the dark, where they wouldn’t be found—

He couldn’t hear what they said next over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.  He saw a flash of beautiful red hair glowing in the sunlight, the smile on her sweaty face—

A door in the apartment opened, in the kitchen maybe, pushed until it hit the wall, to make sure he wasn’t hiding behind it. 

His muscles were stiff—he hadn’t moved from his spot curled on the floor of the only room with access to the fire escape.  It hurt to move, but he moved to the door, standing in the shadows on the opposite side from where it would swing open, waiting with his arm curled to his side and his gun pointed to the floor and the metal finger on the trigger.

He just needed to see her.

Her voice made his breathing slow, relaxed and calmed his speeding heart. 

The air was too still, like it was waiting with baited breath, as they searched the apartment. 

Searching for him to drag him back to the bank.  He wouldn’t let that happen, no matter what orders they gave him, he’d kill both of them—

He recoiled at the thought.  His chest was tight, like it was the thought of killing the man who said he knew him.   Thinking of killing that man made him ache.  Thinking of killing her made it hard to breathe—

They were close now, almost to the door, and the man whispered again, “Ya know he’s here right?” He tensed; of course they knew he was here.  “Why hasn’t he come out guns blazing?”

They were expecting a fight.  He’d give them one—

“Well,” the woman said, right outside the door, “Maybe the Winter Soldier’s lost his touch.”  The way her voice wrapped around those words made him think of cold air and warm skin.  Harsh breathes and soft skin—

The door opened and he acted on instinct.

His gun was pointed at her forehead, the metal thumb pulling the hammer back until it clicked loudly in the silence before he could even look at her properly.

She froze, but there was no fear in her eyes. 

Surprise maybe, but no fear. 

Her hands were at her sides, a small circular disk in her fingertips, but she made no move to use it. Her long hair was shimmering in the low sunlight, just like it used to.  Her pale green eyes stared up at him from the barrel of his gun.  It felt wrong, pointing that gun at her. 

“Or maybe not.” She said, barely more than a whisper as she stared up at him.

Everything about her was familiar.  Her hair, her eyes, her stance, her voice, the way her lips formed her words.  It all made him want to lower the gun. Do whatever she said.

She was Hydra.

Something in his gut recoiled at the thought, but he knew she was going to try to take him back to the bank.  She was a threat.

How else would he know her?

“Clint,” she said slowly, “Put your bow away.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off her; he had barely noticed that the man, Clint, had pointed the bow to his chest, an arrow with a shiny metal tip resting on his fingers, waiting for a single misstep. 

Clint started to argue, but the woman interrupted him.  “We aren’t here to kill him,” She said, still staring at him, studying his face despite the gun pointed at her head.  “Put it down.”

His gun almost wavered at her order, but he stopped it, keeping it pointed at the familiar woman.  The little quirk of her lip proved she noticed.

He could feel the man she called Clint glare at him, but he lowered the bow, letting the arrow go loose on the string.

None of them moved for a moment after that.  He saw flashes of her red hair, her pale skin over strong muscles, her sharp smile and easy laugh.  He tried to follow the images, but it was like trying to hold water in his hand, the harder he tried, the more elusive the images became until pain laced through his head—

“You’re remembering aren’t you?”  She asked, slowly, softly, bringing him back to her. 

Blinking against the bright flashes, he raised his gun with purpose when it lowered slightly in his search.  It still felt like burning in his chest pointing his gun at her.

But she was Hydra.  The enemy.

She raised her hands, the gesture looking foreign on her, dropping the tiny disk on the floor with a small clatter, and she said, “We’re not Hydra.  We work with Steve.”

He knew that name. 

Little distant images, too murky to follow, float around her.  He recognizes her. She has to be Hydra—

“You saved him.” she prompted.

He should shoot them both and leave the city. 

Leave the country. 

Get as far away from the bank as he can get.

“We won’t hurt you.”   She said sincerely. 

She could, but she won’t.

The city felt right, familiar in a way that didn’t rely on similarity. 

He couldn’t hurt her either.

Slowly, waiting for either of them to so much as blink, he lowered his gun, keeping it out and ready.  A part of him recoiled at the idea of leaving himself so defenseless. 

But he knew her, she wasn’t lying.

Just as slowly, she lowered her hands.  “Good,” she said softly. 

Her voice made his heartbeat stutter.  They stood in silence for a moment, until his stomach twisted painfully and a low gurgle broke the quiet.

She blinked, “Are you hungry?” she asked.

_The mission was over, the man was dead, the report was given.  A man in a white coat approached him like he would a feral dog, needle filled with strange liquid in hand.  He glanced at the younger one behind him “The soldier still needs nutrients”—_

He only stared at her.

Slowly, always keeping her hands in sight like he was ready to attack her with only the slightest provocation, she took a bag off her back, pulling it in front of her to reach in and pull out a loaf of bread wrapped in crinkly plastic.

She twisted open the tie and pulled out a single slice, holding it out to him.

She was trying to poison him—

Her lips twitched, “Are you hungry?” she said again, quieter and more intense.  Slowly, she ripped a piece off the bread, small, but big enough to matter, and popped it into her mouth, chewing quickly, showing that there wasn’t anything wrong with the food she offered.

“I’m not going to make you eat it,” she said when she swallowed, “but you should.”

He used to have someone give him orders like that, thinly disguised as questions or suggestions. 

She must be like them.

Instinct took over and he reached out with his hand not holding his gun. 

She was standing just out of his arm’s reach, but he reached for her anyway, lifting his arm until his muscles shifted against his injured shoulder.  The sudden stab of pain surprised him, making his hand curl into a fist and twitch.

Her face twisted into something he’s seen before… when there was blood splattered on his face and his clothes were torn, her hair was longer then—

He forced his hand to move, to take the bread from her hand, and ignore the pain stabbing through his head and shoulder, and her face was kind and open again, with an easy looking smile.

If he were dumber, he would trust she couldn’t hurt a fly.

The way she moved, familiar as it was, suggested her skill. 

He shouldn’t trust her for anything.

“This is Clint,” she said, gesturing to the man with his bow still at his side. 

He was tense, standing behind her, ready to re-notch the arrow if he lifted his gun at her again.  He watched him with sharp, but not harsh, pale blue eyes, silent and still as he waited.

She spoke slowly, “I’m Natasha.”

Lie.

She lied.  He didn’t know how he knew that, but Natasha wasn’t really her name—

She smiled a little wider, a little more genuine as she spoke, “We’re here to help you.”

“Why?”  The question was immediate, he asked without thinking, without giving himself permission to speak.  His voice was hoarse from lack of use. There was more he should say.  More left to say, but he didn’t know what.  So he pursed his lips and kept quiet.

Her smile wilted.  Her face was serious now.  “Because I know you.”  She said, glancing at the ground for a split second before looking back at him. 

Those words were important.

For them.

He squinted at her.  There was more to it, he knew.  But he didn’t know why.  Some story he couldn’t remember all the way.

A little ding broke the silence between them, sudden and loud enough to make his shoulders tense and another stab of pain shoot through him.

She slowly took a small black box out of her jacket pocket.  She held it up and said, “This phone is untraceable.  I’m the only one who knows the number,” she said, “it’s programmed with my number.”

She turned then, not quite showing her back to him, and moved to the table in the main room of the apartment, setting the phone on the polished wood and all but throwing herself onto one of the four chairs with a toss of her red hair. 

The man she called Clint eyed him once before moving to follow her, backing up to keep his back to the wall for as long as possible, moving past her to sit on the couch barely visible from his spot inside the back bedroom.  Clint leaned back against the back of the couch and sat his bow and arrow on his lap, still prepared to silently shoot him.

Natasha pulled another phone, this one white and larger than the one on the table, out of the same pocket in her jacket and started to tap at the screen.

After a moment of watching her, Natasha looked up at him with a wide smile, warm and inviting and familiar, and pushed the chair out from the place across from her, turning back to her phone while making it look like she wasn’t still watching his every move.

It was another silent order, to sit in front of her at her table, to eat the bread that he was still holding in his hand.  Slowly, he stepped out of the dark bedroom and into the light.

* * *

He moved slowly, like he was waiting for punishment, but he still sat across from her at the kitchen table.  He still had the bread in one hand and the gun in the other, but she wasn’t worried.  Not anymore.

Since the beginning of their search of all the empty apartments in Brooklyn, she was tense. 

Worried about what she would—or would not—find.  She was worried she missed him.

Or, if she did find him, that all of his memories were completely gone.  Forever.   There would have been no spark of recognition in his eyes.  He would kill her then, and it made the echo of earlier aches come back like phantom pain in her heart.

Her bag was open on the floor, and she slowly leaned down and grabbed two water bottles and sat them on the table, one in front of her, and the other in front of him.  She watched him until he took a small bite of the bread, plain, so the taste wouldn’t overwhelm him.

The screen of her phone flashed again with a text from Steve.  She read the one he sent before. _Did you find a place ok?_ He asked, sending a question mark when she didn’t answer quickly enough.

_Yeah, it’ll do for now._ She typed, _how’s the search going?_

She hadn’t told him where she was going.  Just that she had almost found where she was going to start the search for herself.  Find a new name by going back to the first one—

_I’ve had easier searches._ Steve said.

_Didn’t think it’d be easy, did you old man?_  She asked.  Adding a little smiley face for effect.

She looked up at the soldier and remembered her words.  Her promise.  No more lies.

Steve would hate her when he found out she found the Winter Soldier.  He would think he should have known.  But that didn’t change her plans.

The soldier might have been too dangerous.  Too unpredictable.  She wouldn’t make her friend be the one to have to kill his best friend.  She could do it if worse comes to worse.  Even if he hated her for it—

_Haha._  His message read, his next came a second later and said, _how are you doing?_

It was an unstated agreement, updates at least every other day, usually every day, checking in on each other.  _Fine_ , she sent the text before she could say anything else, _Just getting into bed.  I’ll text ya later._

He texted back _K_ and she put her phone back in her pocket. She wouldn’t tell Steve she found the soldier.  It’ll be better in the end…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Tumblr: Ashley-VH.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if I missed any tags.  
> Thank you to [Kay](http://osh-my-prince.tumblr.com/) for being the best beta ever and peer pressuring me into writing this  
> My [Tumblr](http://ashley-vh.tumblr.com/)


End file.
